


La voisine

by Guessimritingficsagain



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guessimritingficsagain/pseuds/Guessimritingficsagain
Summary: After getting back from his trip with the boys, Frankie has to face the consequences of his choice. And then, on one sunny evening, he meets his neighbor.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Original Female Character(s), Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Kudos: 6





	La voisine

He came back home to a wife with eyes wild with worry, puffy with tears. Beyond the desperation, he saw the anger. Frankie held her tight, put a hand on her cheek and whispered an apology he hoped would be enough.  
They made love urgently.  
She didn’t push him, and it took him three days to choke out the words. 

_Redfly’s dead._

They were doing the dishes in the kitchen. He was washing, she was drying. He saw her go still as a statue, for a few seconds that stretched into an eternity. She put down the plate, and pressed her hands on the counter.  
(Later, much later, he would realize she was grounding herself, because she was oh so angry.)

_How ?_

That wasn’t the answer he expected, but he knew, even then, that honesty was the only option. But he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t speak the words. Couldn’t explain how wrong that whole trip had been.  
Give me time, he said, and he saw her nod once.  
She stopped touching him after that. It took him a while to notice - he was still ashamed of that, of him not seeing. It took him a while to notice that the anger in her eyes never actually left. 

She didn’t come with him at the funeral. It made sense : she never met any of his brothers. 

(For some reason(s) he didn’t care to think about.)

He remembered meeting her, after going home for good. She was the future, _his_ future, but never quite got why he was so attached to men who reminded him so much of his past, men who were in his nightmares when he jerked awake at night, unable to go back to sleep. She listened to the stories of course, and she laughed at the funny ones, and she found her way to him, to bring him back to the present, to her, at the difficult ones. She knew him, she knew how soft he was, silk-soft like his hair, like the stubble which would never be a full beard on his face. He made a joke about it once, while showing pictures of the boys. He pointed at Santiago and made a stupid joke he couldn’t remember and she laughed, and she put a hand on his cheek and it was so soft, all of it : her hand, the moment, his feelings. She never met them, though. He’d learn, later, after the divorce, that she ducked in a different alley one day at the grocery store after seeing Pope. She thought she was being subtle, but he was trained and he had seen pictures, too. 

Then came the questioning. 

Would he really pick Rosita in time at daycare ? (That they could barely afford.)  
Would he really be home in time for Valentine’s Day ? (That they didn’t use to care about before.)  
Would he ?  
Would he ?  
Would he ? 

And he didn’t notice.  
When she said she was sorry - sorry for his loss - she didn’t put her hand on his cheek. She stood there. There was a softness in her eyes but she just stood there and when he reached out, she busied herself with a meaningless thing to do, something to occupy her hands. He didn’t notice. 

And then one day on the couch watching TV, she just said _Catfish_. And she added _You’ll never not be that._

And then 

_I can’t trust you._

And then

_You never told me what happened._

She let the silence settle, and he knew, he understood, the tipping point was here and all he had left was honesty. So he told her. Not once in the months that had passed had she asked about the money. 

He woke up to bags packed and her leaving, new place already found, everything planned - one week Rosita with her, one week Rosita with him but _if anything happens Frankie I swear …_

He couldn’t blame her. He let her walk away. 

He moved into a smaller house, then - one he could afford. Work, eat, sleep, night with the boys. Work, eat sleep. Rinse, repeat. Rosita turned three and the ache in his body grew. Rinse, repeat. The pain and the longing had disappeared. He could see his ex-wife, talk to her, be normal, never addressing the fact that he had fucked up so badly he had screwed up the best thing he had in a week or so. 

He had the boys over sometimes, for a barbecue, or because they wanted to see Rosita. This time, it was barbecue. All of them, sitting on wooden chairs, talking about nothing and everything as the evening sun warmed them - that, or the beer. On the other side of the street, his new neighbor was doing pretty much the same, friends, barbecue, the laughter reaching the other side of the street, filling the air at a moment of quiet.  
When Tom was mentioned, the air stood still for a moment - that always happened, despite the water under the bridge. Frankie - Catfish, his ex-wife was right about that one - went back to those days, long gone, when he saw Tom’s family at the same kind of barbecue. 

(Those didn’t happen anymore, for obvious reasons no one would ever mention.)

Everything was quiet and soft in the summer air, nobody talking. Then, Ironhead :

« They seem to have an awful lot of wine, over there »

And sure enough, his neighbor was coming out of the house, a bottle in each hand. White wine, from the looks of it. And Ironhead’s brother, always the one for a party, downed his beer, got up, and answered :

« We should go there, or they should come here » 

Pope added :

« But with the wine » 

Frankie watched Benny cross the street, wave at the group of people, talk for a bit - laughter echoing in the street - and then jog back, a delighted smile on his face. He stopped right at the entrance and exclaimed, a bit too loud :

« If we’ve got good food, they’re willing to share. And they got _French wine_. The good stuff. » 

And just as the boys were about to answer, a guy with a slight accent Frankie couldn’t quite place appeared right next to Benny and said :

« Our place. And we cook. You Americans are not good at that. Wine for everyone. Bring the meat, and the beer. I’m Nanni, by the way. » 

Hands were shook, beers and meat were brought. Frankie, never one to prevent his friends from having fun, went along with the plan. 

It wasn’t until later, as everyone was chatting happily while he sat a bit on the side, laughing occasionally at some joke, that he saw his neighbor get up and walk up to him. She had been sitting on the edge of a chair she shared with one of her friends. Some words had been exchanged, in a language Frankie didn’t understand. She had gotten up, and had grabbed a beer. When she handed it to him, he smiled, thanked her, and in return, she introduced herself, apologizing for not doing it before. 

She was soft, so soft, and bright. But he didn’t notice right away.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this is me getting back into fan fiction after years of not writing those - but a LOT published, back in the days, on FF. I've been reading so many great stuff it made me to dive right back into it, even though I'm writing a novel right now and I should be doing that. Sorry, this is not beta'ed (in this house we die like men), and English in not my first language.


End file.
